Accidental Therapy
by Shane C
Summary: Post-war ficlet, Marco's POV. Marco talks Jake into doing a TV interview, and they end up hanging out beforehand. Some of the things the series left hanging get addressed, but mostly its just some good old fashion J/M friendship. Thank you in advance if you decide to leave your thoughts. T for underage drinking and mild swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**Accidental Therapy – Part One**

I talked him into it, but for all of the wrong reasons.

Sure, I thought it might help him – and in more ways than just one. But I'd be lying if I said that had been my primary reason for getting him to agree to the interview.

_I _had no problem with doing interviews. The more, the better. It was all about being relatable and marketable – the better the public thought they knew me, the more of me they wanted. Basically, I manipulated the general public for my own personal gains. Did I feel bad about it? No. It was the name of the game. Besides, people wanted their heroes, and they wanted them to feel like one of their own. I was just giving the people what they wanted.

The thing was, I wasn't the _only _thing they wanted. They wanted the other Animorphs, too. I gave them that look – the insider's perspective on Jake, Cassie, Rachel, Tobias, and Ax. Mostly Jake, though. I might have been _a _hero, but he was _the _hero. The brave boy who'd given literally everything he had and was to save everyone else. And for a while, my insights were enough to appease the masses.

It wasn't enough anymore. They'd gotten tired of hearing about Jake. Now they wanted to hear _from _him. And by being so damn lovable and relatable, I'd shot myself in the foot. The people expected me to use my connections to Jake to get what they wanted. And I'd given in – I had to. The thing about people getting what they want is that, sooner or later, they take it for granted. They assume you'll do for them what no one else can or will.

It had taken me a long time to get Jake to agree to do what I – they – wanted. He'd told me several times that he didn't have anything left to give, and every time he said it, it was like a shot to the heart. I knew he wasn't just saying it. The boy – young man, really – just didn't have anything left. Ordering Rachel to kill Tom had broken him beyond fixing.

When I asked him to appear on the least-threatening show possible, I thought I'd been lobbing him a softball. Stephen Colbert was a comedian, not a hard-hitting political analyst. He wouldn't ask the questions Jake was afraid of. I thought my buddy Jake could at least fake being okay through an interview with Stephen. And, in the end, even though he didn't have anything left, he found a way to give me what I wanted. He found the strength to put himself in the public eye – for me.

The day before we were scheduled to appear, I'd discovered that Jake didn't even own a suit. The one he'd worn for both Rachel and Tom's memorial services had been a rental. So I picked him up in my Aston Martin and brought him downtown to Panoyan, where my tailor had gotten him set up with his own custom-fit Brioni suit. $7,600 out of my own pocket – and worth every penny. Jake had grudgingly admitted he looked good in it, turning in front of the mirrors.

"This is pretty nice," he said, studying the contours of the custom jacket. "Very Bond."

I held up three ties – red, blue, and gray. They would all go with the jacket. "Which one do you like?"

"Whichever is cheapest. I'm not a bazillionaire like you," he said promptly, and I rolled my eyes and reminded him this was my treat. Not to mention, all three were $500 apiece.

He looked uncomfortable. "Yeah. I appreciate the sentiment, but I can afford my own suit." And he could, too. Jake received a government check every month as "retroactive payment for past services rendered to government and country." It was easily enough to live on, especially given his no-frills lifestyle.

I didn't want him thinking about price, though. If he found out how much I was paying for his clothing, he was likely to realize what a big deal the interview was, get cold feet, and say to forget the whole thing. "Stop it right now," I told him, trying to sound annoyed and menacing so he wouldn't bring it up again. "Getting your ass on the 'Report' is going to do wonders for my career. This suit isn't a gift, it's an investment in my own future. So shut up and tell me which tie you want to wear."

He had that look of pained concentration on his face he wore all the time now…but when I talked to him like that, it was like slipping him back in time a few years, to the way things used to be. A smile broke out, and he actually chuckled. "Okay, okay! Gray tie."

With the suit discreetly charged to my store credit account, we got back into the car and I started home. To _my_ home. Jake noticed when I passed the exit that would take us back to his house. "Are we not done, yet? What gives?"

This part was tricky. I had resolved not to let him out of my sight until after the interview was over – I didn't want him having too much time to think. If he was allowed to wallow in his own mind, he was likely to chicken out and disappear before the show. So I did what I do best – I manipulated him. "Dude…I don't know. It's just, I've got this big old house to myself, and I'm always wishing I had somebody to hang out with. I figure since we're already kicking it, you might as well sleep over. Like old times, you know? It'll save me the trouble of picking you up in the morning for the flight out." I tried to inject just the right amount of hopefulness into my voice.

He didn't totally buy it, but it worked, anyway. "You're such a spin doctor," he accused me, but good-naturedly. "Fine. I'll do it."

I was a little more genuine as we passed the guard at the gate to my private neighborhood. "Seriously, I think it'll be cool. We haven't really hung out for a long time."

His eyes got that over-the-hills-and-far-away look as he stared at the passing mansions through his window. "I know. Sorry. I haven't been a very good friend, lately."

"Hey, none of that. I've been busy, too, you know. I don't want to hang out with you when you're all depressed." I regretted the words as soon as they were out of my mouth.

"I'm not depressed," he argued. "I'm just…me. This is how I am, now. Back when we were in the fight, I didn't have time to think about everything. Now I do. It's just the way it is."

"Sure, I know," I said, placating, trying to make peace. I pulled the car into the long driveway that led to my home. I felt the urge to make an excuse, or something. As to why I was able to function just fine, and Jake was barely hanging on. "I get down about everything too, sometimes. Staying busy helps keep my mind off of it. You should try it."

"I stay busy," he said as he climbed out of the car. "I've got my own place to take care of, and I don't have an army of servants to help," he nodded pointedly as my huge oak front door opened, and my butler/assistant, Alvin, came down the front step to pull the Aston Martin into the garage with my other assorted cars. I handed him the key as Jake continued. "I still do the lawn at my parents' place, too. And I have dinner with them almost every night."

I should have let it drop, but that just isn't my style. Bullheadedly, I pressed him as we entered my house. "Sure, okay. But once the grass is cut and you're not playing Mr. Fixit, what do you _do _all day?"

He flushed with embarrassment for a second. "Whatever I feel like. Watch some TV. Hang out with Homer." He seemed to grasp onto something that gave him a little of his edge back. He looked at me slyly. "You might think I'm being useless, but I still help out where I can. I volunteer for a website that helps kids in crisis. You know, pregnant teenagers and kids that are thinking about suicide, stuff like that. I'm just an anonymous guy they can talk to on the computer, or sometimes I even call them."

"That's…depressing," I said before I could stop myself. "Well, I'm not saying it's not good that you like to help people, Jake. But is spending your time talking to suicidal goth kids really what's best for _you_?"

He gave me a withering look before turning to dig in my refrigerator. "I _like _to help people," he insisted stubbornly. "It makes me feel…I don't know. Useful, I guess." He turned the tables on me as he cracked open a can of root beer. "What do _you _do that's so special? All I ever see on TV is you just telling jokes and fooling around with celebrities and whatnot. Do you ever help people out?"

I could feel this turning into an argument, but I couldn't help but to take the bait. "Yeah, I help people," I said sarcastically. "I sacrificed my childhood to save the human race from the Yeerks. I think I'm entitled to a little "me" time, now."

"Fair enough," he said. "I just don't want you busting my chops for wanting to do a little more with my time."

"A little _more_?" I echoed, incredulously. "Jake, you don't owe anybody anything. I don't know where you got this complex about always having to be useful, but let me tell you something. It's nice to not have to worry about other people, for a change. It's rewarding to finally do something for yourself, to be selfish. Just a little." I waved my hands helplessly. "People would buck up if they saw _you _buck up. By going on this show tomorrow and letting everyone see that you're healing, that you're recovering, you'll be doing more for the world than you could ever do on your anonymous crisis website."

He just looked at me over the top of his can of soda. I relented, realizing I was letting my emotions run away with me. "Okay, okay. So you like to help people – that's cool. I just worry about you. Sorry."

He just nodded. "No big deal. And I already agreed to do this show with you. You don't have to talk me into it, anymore."

I decided it was time to change the subject. "So, anyway. What do you feel like doing?" I was thinking along the lines of going to a club or a restaurant or something – it was still early afternoon, but I don't normally have down time. I'd budgeted this day specifically to keep Jake distracted.

He shrugged, crushed his empty can, and tossed it into the trash. "We still have some sun. Want to go out back and throw a football around or something?"

The suggestion surprised me with its youthfulness. When was the last time I'd considered doing something simply for the fun of it? I couldn't really remember, and that bothered me. And for all my talk of being healthy and moving on, it kind of bugged me that Jake – doomy, gloomy Jake – had been the one to suggest a game of pigskin. "Uh, yeah, sounds good." I went into my garage – the one where I stored my crap, not the one for my cars – and searched for a football. All I could find was a tennis ball, but at least it was something. Jake didn't seem to care as we spread apart across my enormous back lawn, which was better manicured than a professional football field. We stopped about thirty yards apart and tossed the ball back and forth. We had to talk loud, but we carried on a semi-normal conversation as we played catch.

I noticed he kept shooting glances at my pool. It was awesome; I'd designed it to make an impact. I didn't go with the traditional square or rounded design. It was roughly shaped like a peanut in its shell, so it would look more like a natural body of water. Where the diving board would go, I put in a big, rock wall waterfall. Palm trees and ferns surrounded the whole thing. When you were actually in the pool, it looked like you were in a lagoon, not the back yard of a mansion.

I caught a frozen rope Jake sidearmed at me with one hand and grinned; I might have gotten a _little_ sluggish since we'd beaten the Yeerks, but I still had battle reflexes. "Want to go for a swim?"

I could tell he'd been hoping I'd ask. "Sure. That's a pretty cool pool."

I motioned for him to follow me into the poolhouse, flipping him the tennis ball. "Thanks. I had it designed by Alan Jaquoi."

"Like I know who that is."

"He's just a famous architect who specializes in water features. Most people's pools are their little private getaway – I just wanted mine to be more of a getaway than the norm."

He eyed the thick vegetation surrounding it as we went into the poolhouse, which was bigger than his home. "How do you get the water to steam like that?"

"The water is kept at eighty-one degrees. I guess it's a little cooler than that outside right now. Pretty cool effect, huh?"

"Very tropical."

I pointed him toward the poolhouse's guest bedroom. "Check the dresser in there – Alvin keeps it stocked with swimsuits. Your size should be in the second drawer."

Jake hesitated, like he wanted to comment on this display of wealth, but just shook his head and disappeared into the room. I went into my room, picked out my favorite blue board shorts, and tossed them on. Jake was already waiting at the open door.

We jumped into the salt water pool. The liquid was on the verge of uncomfortably hot, like it always was when I first got in; I knew from experience that as the sun set and the air cooled, the water would go from feeling warm to perfect. Jake swam into the deep end and treaded, looking down. "How deep is this? I can't even see the bottom."

I laughed. "It's only about sixteen feet at the deepest part. The bottom is painted special to make it look like it doesn't _have _a bottom. Neat, huh?"

Jake's answer was to grab a deep breath and turn for the bottom. I watched him descend with his right arm stretched out in front of him, to keep his face from hitting the nearly invisible bottom. He finally bumped into it and turned around to come back to the surface. When he broke the water, he grinned and flipped his wet hair out of his eyes. "That is a really awesome effect – I couldn't see the bottom until I was almost right on top of it."

He bobbed his way to the "sand bar," the middle of the pool where the bottom rose up to almost touch the surface, and sat down on it. The water lapped against his chest as he leaned back on his hands and closed his eyes. "Damn. This is pretty cool. Think I'm going to have to come back and use this more often."

I floated over to him and sat, too. The water that was level with his chest came up to my chin, almost. "Anytime, Big Jake. You know that. My house is your house."

The strangest expression crossed his face. I saw his Adam's apple bob up and down like it was dancing a jig, but when he spoke, his voice sounded normal. "Thanks. I doubt you know what that means to me."

"Whatever's changed, we haven't," I said seriously. "You're my best bud, and you always will be. It'd be nice if you'd stop forgetting that."

"I know that. It's just…I know I'm not a blast to be around, these days. I guess I don't like to impose, especially on people I like."

"You're always welcome to come over and bum me out. Even if I'm not here, just come on over and hang out, if you need to get away. I already had a key made for you; I'll remember to get it before we leave tomorrow."

His Adam's apple started dancing again, and I got uncomfortable. Luckily, Alvin chose to interrupt our mushy moment. His voice crackled over one of the speakers hidden by plants on the side of the pool.

"Mr. Marco? Would you and Mr. Jake like to enjoy a refreshment?"

I grinned, happy for another chance to show off. "Impeccable timing, my man. I'd love a drink. Make it strong and tropical – surprise me." I looked at Jake expectantly, letting him know it was his turn to place his order.

He thought for a minute. "Gin, please."

"Gin?" I asked, surprised. Of course I had it in stock, but it was nasty. Tasted like cotton and pine, to me.

"Gin, and..?" Alvin prompted.

"Neat. Just gin."

I could almost see Alvin shrugging as he went off to fill our order. I gave Jake a questioning look. "Since when do you like gin? What is it, 1901?"

"It was Grampa G's drink," he said, as if that explained everything. We were quiet until Alvin appeared at the side of the pool. Jake started to swim over to get his drink, but I touched his arm to stop him. Alvin put the tray on a specially-designed float and sent it our way with a solid push. Jake grinned as it drifted in front of us and took his glass of gin off of it. I grabbed my glass and sniffed it – rum and pineapple, smelled like. The ice tinkled in the crystal as I took a swig.

"Delicious," I closed my eyes. "Thanks, Alvin."

"Sir," he bowed slightly and made himself scarce.

Jake's expression didn't change as he took a swallow of his gin, and I was disappointed. I'd expected him to at least grimace at the strong taste of the aged liquor. "How is it?" I asked skeptically.

"Smooth. _Really _smooth. I usually drink Tanqueray, and this puts that to shame. What brand is this? I'm going to have to get some for my house."

I laughed hard and long, because of _course _he'd picked the most expensive drink I had in my house, and of _course _he'd want some for himself. It was ironic because I knew he disapproved of my opulent lifestyle, even if he wouldn't come right out and say it. "It's called Revelation, and I don't think you're going to be able to run to the package store and pick it up. It was a gift from Prince Harry."

"A gift from _who?_"

"Prince Harry. Are you really surprised that I know him?" He thought about it before shaking his head. "They only made five bottles of the stuff. Almost a quarter million per bottle, I've been told."

Jake thought I was putting him on. "Now you're just full of crap. No liquor in the world is worth that."

"Well, if you want to be a cheapskate, I could get you some Nolet's reserve. I think that stuff goes for a modest $700 per bottle, when you can find it."

He looked disgruntled, but he took a swallow of his drink with a new reverence. "I'll stick to Tanqueray. This is good, though. Really good."

We sipped our drinks in silence for a while, just enjoying the peace of the setting and each other's company. The only comment I made was that at least he would have some color on 'The Colbert Report' tomorrow – the sun was already darkening his skin. It made me wonder if he spent as much time outside doing chores like lawn care as he'd claimed.

We stayed out long enough to have a second and third drink – Jake had requested a switch to his usual brand – and the temperate water, cocktails, and hang-out session had the both of us feeling loose. I guess that's why he was able to get out some of the things he'd clearly been wondering about.

The first question he asked didn't surprise me. In fact, the only thing that surprised me about it was how long it had taken him to ask it. "So, you still keep in touch with Cassie, right? How is she?"

"She's good, man. You know she's keeping busy – they gave her that new position in the President's cabinet as Minister of Liaison to Resident Aliens. In other words, she's the Hork-bajirs' rights advocate. She takes that job seriously – last I heard, she was pushing for them to get both popular and electoral votes, just like American citizens."

Jake laughed; he sounded both proud and sad. "That's Cassie."

I grinned. "Yeah. She's also raised billions for worldwide conservation efforts, like the rainforests and threatened species. She makes me push that World Wildlife Fund stuff every chance I get." I rolled my eyes good-naturedly, as if to say, 'what are you gonna do?' "The girl is just a straight-up hippy/ecology nut/activist. She loves it all. I don't even think she sleeps, anymore."

Jake just stared into his glass while I talked. "That's good. I'm glad she's happy. Is she still with that guy?"

I was hoping he wouldn't ask me about that. "Yeah, I think so. She was the last time I heard from her, anyway. Ronnie seems like a good guy. Kind of boring, but stable. I think he keeps her grounded."

Jake didn't seem jealous or mad or anything. "That's good, too. I want her to be happy," he said again.

It bothered me to see him sanguine about the idea of Cassie being with someone else. "I'm not sure it would last if you tried to get in touch with her," I said quietly. "Sometimes I feel like he's just a bookmark; somebody to hold your place until you get back."

"I'm here. I never went anywhere," he said, just as quietly.

"You know what I mean." I gave him a minute to think. "So, do you think you'll ever do it? Talk to Cassie about the two of you, I mean."

He shook his head. "I don't think so. She's happy. You said it yourself – Ronnie is stable. He's good for her. I don't even like being around myself much anymore. I wouldn't want to bring her down."

"That's her choice, not yours," I pointed out. "Who are you to tell her who she wants to be with?" He didn't answer. "I'm just saying, think about it. Let her know that you're okay. Let her know that you're available. I don't like playing the man in the middle between the two of you. I think you should talk. The way you left things was…not good."

He polished off his third drink and turned the cut crystal glass in his hand, watching the dying sun's rays bounce off of it. "No. It's better this way. She's happy, and I don't want to make her doubt herself and what she's doing."

I started to argue, but then I kept my mouth shut. It was between Jake and Cassie. None of my business. I'd already told him my advice, anyway; it was on him whether he wanted to act on it or not. "Whatever you say, man. I guess if you can look at it like that, then you're in a healthier place than I thought."

"Yeah." He held up his hand to show me his pruney fingers. "I think I'm ready to get out."

I stood up and waded to the side of the pool with him willingly enough. "What do you want to do tonight? I was thinking we could go out for dinner and a drink – what do you say?"

He considered it for a short moment before shaking his head. "I think I just want to be a shut in, tonight. I'm sure you've got all sorts of video games – want to try your skills out against me? We could order a pizza or some Chinese take out or something."

As he painted the picture, suddenly I wanted to do that a lot more than I wanted to sit in some VIP section at a swanky restaurant. Jake had a way of turning me into a fifteen year old again, and I liked that. "You're on. I've got the latest systems and my own movie theatre to play the games in. I'll have Alvin order us a feast – we can pig out and I can trash you at whatever game you want."

He grinned, and it was one of the rare, genuine smiles he almost never wore anymore. "Cool." He took his shower in the poolhouse while I asked Alvin to pick up a variety of carry-out food, then I took my own shower.

Instead of playing games in my theatre, Jake wanted to hook up my Xbox in my living room. He said it helped him to feel normal if we weren't in a private home movie theatre. So we lounged around for the rest of the night, eating pizza and Chinese and drinking beer like normal guys. After he got sick of getting killed by me at every video game imaginable, we put on a movie and zoned out. I knew I was almost in a coma from the alcohol and ridiculous amount of food, so I figured he was, too. As I felt my eyelids fight me to stay closed, Jake spoke drowsily from the other couch.

"Marco? Thanks. I needed this."

I tried to smile, but I felt too tired. "Me too. We should make this a weekly thing."

"Yep."

"Yep."

As I drifted off to sleep, I heard him start snoring. Before sixty seconds had passed, I was snoring right along with him.

**A/N – **The second part of this will be up soon – it's going to be the actual Colbert Report interview that Jake and Marco do together. I'll get it up ASAP, and as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on how this is going, so far. Thank you. :D


	2. Chapter 2

A tentative voice woke me up. I had no clue what time it was, only that it was late enough in the morning for the sun to be streaming in through the skylight in my living room. "Mr. Marco?" Alvin said timidly. "I believe you need to wake up, sir."

I jerked awake, remembering today was an important one. I glanced around the living room – all of the trash from dinner had been cleaned up while we slept – and saw Jake passed out on my other couch. His left leg was thrown up and over the back of it. His right arm hung to the ground, and his head was halfway off of the cushion. His mouth was wide open, and he was drooling all over my wide-plank, pine floor.

"What time is it?" I asked, looking at the wall clock and getting the answer for myself – just after ten in the morning. Crap. "Jake!" He didn't move, so I hummed a couch pillow at him. It popped him in the head and landed in his lake of saliva.

He popped up like a jack-in-the-box, and his precarious position on the couch gave way. He tumbled to a heap on the floor before springing to his feet, eyes automatically scanning the room for danger. I rolled my eyes. "We're late, fool. Get your butt in the shower – our flight leaves in less than an hour."

Alvin took pity on the still-confused Jake. "This way, Mr. Jake. I've put some appropriate travel clothing in the downstairs guest room, and you can shower there. I'll show you the way." I didn't even pay attention as I scrambled to my own bathroom.

I thought about taking the time to run a razor over my face before hopping in the steam shower, but I bypassed it as part of my plan for later. I knew we were in a hurry, but I couldn't bring myself to rush the process of letting the steam exfoliate my skin before scrubbing down with soap. When I emerged from the bathroom in a towel, Alvin was standing in the bedroom doorway. I ignored him as I went into my walk-in to throw on some clothes. Alvin was used to it – he just spoke as I dressed with no hint of distress in his voice.

"I've called ahead to the charter company and told them to hold the plane. Your wardrobes and luggage have been sent ahead and are already on board. Would you like me to drive you?"

I evaluated myself as I pulled on a pair of slacks. "Uh, yeah. I'm still waking up."

"Very good, sir. There is no rush – as I said, the captain is holding the jet for you. You will arrive in New York with plenty of time to spare."

I buttoned my shirt and said, "Thanks, Alvin. I don't know what I'd do without you." And I really didn't. I made a mental note to talk to my financial advisor about putting a raise for Alvin into the books.

His reply was professional. "You're welcome, sir. I will have the car waiting."

Once I got my loafers onto my feet, I took the stairs three at a time. "Jake?" I yelled, not knowing which guest room Alvin had put Jake in.

My shouts were unnecessary. Jake was waiting for me by the foyer, ready to go. He was unbuttoning and re-buttoning his shirt's top button, looking markedly uncomfortable. "I feel like I'm going to a dance or something," he complained. "What's wrong with T-shirts?"

I whisked by him, and he followed. As promised, Alvin had the Lincoln running in the driveway right in front of the house. "Nothing's wrong with them…when you're at your own place," I said as we climbed into the back seat of the town car. "You've got to work with me, Jake. When we're out in public, we've got to be professional. You're used to being ignored, but it's not like that anymore. Everywhere we go, there's going to be hundreds of eyes and at least that many cameras on us. Our job is to look like we know that and we're more than capable of dealing with it."

He squirmed on the plush leather. "You're not really helping me feel better about the whole thing."

I sighed heavily. "I'm just giving you a reality check. If you show up in New York wearing sweatpants, it'll spark off a whole round of questions on the news media circuit. People will wonder why you can't pull it together enough to get dressed in the morning. Then the next question is, 'How could Marco let his best friend and leader of the resistance fall so far from grace?' Believe me, Jake, it's better to just look the part and dodge all of that flak altogether."

He was looking at me from the corner of his eye, the way he used to when I came up with a plan that made more sense than his. "Okay. I get it, I guess." He thought for a minute. "I'll go along with this, but it's only for your sake. I don't give a damn what people in the news say about me. I kind of care about what they say about you – even though I don't believe there's anything I could do that would damage your image too much."

"Don't ever say that," I told him, dead serious. "It's not just me, Jake. We're all tied together, forever. What affects one of us affects all of us. It's barely been a year since Tobias took off, and I'm already catching barbs about why I haven't been able to find him and fix him." My voice was hard, and I didn't feel it necessary to explain to Jake why that wasn't my job. "Everything one of us does affects the others in ways we can't predict."

Jake abruptly grinned. "That goes both ways, though."

"What?" I was genuinely confused, and Jake's smile widened.

"If I walk around in my boxers, that looks bad on you. Somehow. I get it. But me doing this show with you…" he trailed off, grinning.

I laughed. "Yeah, point taken. You're showing the world that I was able to magically pull you out of your funk. And you're right – it's gonna do wonders for me." I considered him, serious again. "But it's also going to open doors for you, my man. And that's more important to me than my own image."

Jake stared. I blushed, realizing how touchy-feely my comment had sounded. "You know what I mean," I muttered. "I just want you to get off of your ass. You have all of this power and influence right in your reach, and you've got the heart and the head to _use _it. You could change things for the better. But you're not – you're just wasting away in your own empty house and your parents' place. You think the things you do don't affect anybody else? How about me?" I demanded. I waved at myself in a self-deprecating way. "This is what I am. It's what I do. I make people laugh. I make them feel good. I'm no revolutionary. People wouldn't follow me into a new era of peace and enlightenment." I resisted the sudden urge to punch him – it was overwhelming, because I hadn't realized how strongly I'd felt about this until just this moment.

Jake just watched me as I ranted at him. "Things aren't as good as they seem, man. The Yeerks are gone, but now this planet has new problems. Do you even watch the news? The Anti-Alien psychos, the Anti-technology Neo-Luddites…they're out there, and they're not peaceful. _I _can't do anything about that. People don't want to hear me talk politics. You, though…I'll just say I'm not the only one waiting for you to step up."

Jake continued to stare, but I could see in his eyes that he wasn't ignoring me. He was listening. That was good, and I decided not to push it too far. I'd managed to plant the seed. "Anyway. Sorry. It's just that I hear it all day, every day, and it's not even about me. Can you at least think about it?"

He nodded. "I'll think about it. I don't know what I have to offer, but I can promise you this – if something comes up where I think my skills can be put to good use, I'll think about it long and hard. I won't just say no." He paused, then smiled again. "I _told _you, I like to help people. I guess if someone offers me a way to do that, I'll have to take it."

Inside, I was cheering. This was the healthiest I'd seen Jake since the last Dracon beam was fired, over a year ago. I kept my expression composed and my voice cool, though. "That's all I'm asking."

Alvin pulled the town car through security and straight onto the tarmac at Santa Barbara Municipal Airport. My usual jet was waiting patiently, as Alvin had promised it would be. He got out and opened Jake's door – he usually opened mine for me (at his own insistence), but he always got my guest's door for them, if I had one. I walked across the hot pavement to the stairs coming down from the side of the jet and shook hands with the captain.

I was glad it was Captain Jeff – I didn't have an official plane or an official pilot, but the charter company knew I liked to fly with Jeff, so they assigned him to me whenever they could. I liked how he was no-nonsense, but still easygoing at the same time. He smiled broadly as his big hand swallowed mine. "Good to see you again, Marco."

"You too. We got a smooth flight to the Big Apple?"

"You know it. Clear skies all the way." His eyes flicked over my shoulder to Jake, who was walking slowly to join us. Jake was studying the lines of the new Gulfstream with an expression similar to the way I looked when I was checking out a new car. I moved out of the way so the two could meet.

"Mr. Berenson," Jeff said, unable to hide the pleasure in his voice. "I'm Jeff Hollingsworth. It's my honor to fly you."

Jake shook his hand. "It's just Jake, Captain."

Jeff blushed at what he felt was a great honor. "I'll call you Jake if you call me Jeff. And, like I said, it's my pleasure."

Jake nodded serenely. "This is one beautiful bird you've got here, Jeff."

Jeff was clearly pleased. "I know she's no Model 22, but she does the job."

"Does she handle smooth?"

"Like you would not believe," Jeff replied reverently, still apparently overwhelmed by the hero he was about to ferry cross-country.

"Well, I guess you'd better show us," Jake said easily, noticing my impatient look. "Marco'll have a fit if we're late."

Jeff laughed. "Won't be a problem. My baby can do Mach 2, and I've got all the proper clearances to use the speed."

"Nice. Thanks again," he said, following Jeff into the Jet. I took my favorite seat in the opulent interior – the plush La-Z-Boy in the corner closest to the plasma TV.

Jeff stopped before going through the forward door to the cockpit. He turned hesitantly and said, "Jake? I don't mind an audience if you want the jump seat. Figure you might be more comfortable in the cockpit, at least until we get to altitude. Like I said, I know she's no Model 22 Andalite Fighter, but -"

Jake cut him off in an excited voice. "Seriously? I can hang in the cockpit for takeoff?" And without a word to me, he nearly knocked Jeff over to get into the cockpit. I rolled my eyes and grabbed a magazine from the table in front of me. As soon as the door closed, I allowed myself a smile. I love it when a plan comes together – this was the first time in recent memory I could remember Jake getting excited about anything.

As promised, we made New York in record time. Jake hadn't just ridden with the pilots for takeoff; he'd only left the cockpit once during the whole flight, to brag about being the honorary "co-pilot" on his way to the bathroom. I'd rolled my eyes, but I hadn't busted his bubble. He was having fun, actually having fun, and I wasn't going to ruin it for him.

My in-town driver picked us up straight from the runway. We had two hours to kill before we were due in make-up and wardrobe, and even though I'd just had a haircut the week before, I told Jake I wanted to stop for one. My real reason was getting Jake in the barber's chair. I didn't say so, but Jake's not slow.

"I really don't want a haircut," he complained as I led the way into the Hell's Kitchen barber shop. "I _like _it a little longer."

"Then don't get one," I said easily. "I never miss the chance for an authentic New York trim-n-shave. Makes me feel like one of those Mafiosos in The Godfather."

He eyed the old-fashioned barber's chairs through the plate glass window of the shop before following me in. "A professional shave? That might be cool."

Of course, my favorite barber Carlo and all of his cronies made a big fuss when Jake and I walked in. There was a loud chorus of very Italian, "Ooooh!" and "Eeeey!" when we walked in, and they all stopped cutting hair to clap for us. Jake looked embarrassed, and I took a bow. It had been six months since my last visit, but Carlo was extremely proud of being my in-town barber. Above his workstation hung signed photos of all the famous people he cut for. My picture was the highest on the wall, not to mention the biggest. Old school Italians love their heroes, and to them, that's what I was.

"And you brought a friend!" Rossi, the owner of the shop, said when they all quieted down. He was very old, but still sharp as a razorblade. He calmly shook Jake's hand, never breaking eye contact with him. "You're very welcome in my shop, my friend. May I have the pleasure?" Rossi gestured to his own chair in the front that hardly ever got used anymore. "I would be deeply honored."

I grinned internally; I'd counted on Rossi's Old Country charm to talk Jake into the trim so I didn't have to. I guess Jake couldn't help it. He nodded, sat down, and said, "Just a little off the top, thanks."

"You won't even know I touched it," Rossi promised. After the quick trims, Jake and I were leaned back in our chairs for the treat of a hot towel over the stubble. Carlo and Rossi ran their straight razors over our necks and faces in quick, sure strokes.

When they were done, Jake smiled at Rossi. "That was excellent," he said. "It goes against every bone in my body to let somebody hold a blade to my throat…but with you, I didn't mind it."

Rossi didn't smile back. "That's the idea, you know," he said seriously. "The barber's code. All the old bosses were always on a hundred different hit lists, but they knew they could always trust their barber."

"I'm no boss, but there are probably people out there who would like to do me in. Now I know that if I can trust one person in the world, I can trust my barber." He reached for his wallet. "What do I owe -"

He didn't even get the chance to finish before a chorus of disapproving "Eeeey!" ran through the barbers in the shop, the loudest coming from Rossi himself. "Your money is no good here – frankly, I'm a little embarrassed you would think it." Jake blushed, and Rossi gave him one of those old, Italian, ass-out hugs. "Send me a photo to hang above my mirror and we're square."

Jake eyed him doubtfully. "You want my picture?"

I laughed. "I'll send you one, and I'll make sure he signs it for you," I promised Rossi. "Jake's modest."

Carlo laughed raucously. "Not like you, then. This _catzarro _almost knocked down my other pictures hanging himself up," he winked at Jake.

"He's exaggerating," I told Jake as we left the shop. "Thanks, boys!" I called behind me. All the barbers, already back to work, yelled back in unison, and even Jake was laughing as we got back into the waiting car.

"You've got some interesting friends," he said, running his hand over his haircut.

"Only because I make them," I shrugged. "When you get out there, you realize there's a world full of cool people."

He didn't say anything, but I could tell my words were making him think again. We made one more stop on the way to the studio to wolf down some Nathan's hot dogs, even though we'd had some food on the jet. By the time we were entering the production studio, Jake was getting nervous.

"What am I supposed to say?" he worried. "I don't have any updates for everybody. Maybe people are going to want to know what I'm doing. I don't have anything to tell them."

I rolled my eyes. "Jake, you have _got_ to understand how people see you. You're the savior of the human race. You could be a cokehead who kicks puppies in your off time, and people would still love you. Just say whatever you want." I nimbly dodged an intern who was zipping down the hallway in a golf cart. "Stephen will play nice. Don't worry about coming up with any answers to hard questions, because he won't ask any."

He relaxed about a hair as we were snatched up and put into wardrobe. Jake looked self-conscious as he buttoned and unbuttoned his new jacket. I smacked his hand as we were shoved into make-up chairs. "Quit it. You look good."

He humored the make-up girl as she dusted him down with anti-glare powder. After make-up, we were put in the greenroom. It was just the two of us, for now. I started reading a magazine, trying to center myself for the appearance. When I glanced up, Jake had his fists balled in his lap and was staring at the ground. His face was the perfect portrait of stress.

"Will you _stop_ it?" I demanded, and he looked up, surprised. "Seriously. If you let it, this sort of thing can be a lot of fun. Just remember, you're giving the people what they want, and they'll love you for it."

The door opened, and Stephen Colbert himself slipped into the room. He gave me a genuine smile and shook my hand. "Thanks so much for coming," he said, none of the pompousness of his character anywhere in his mannerisms. He was a showman, like me; his TV personality was the complete opposite of how he was in real life.

"No problem. This is your guy. Stephen, I'd like you to meet Jake Berenson."

Stephen looked at Jake in genuine awe as he shook hands with him. "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you picked my show for your first interview." Sincerity dripped from his words. "You and I are just going to joke around for a minute or two. I won't ask anything heavy. People just want to see you with their own eyes, Jake. Zero pressure. Cool?"

Jake seemed to relax at Stephen's words, and even smiled. "Okay. That sounds easy enough."

"It will be. Just try to have a little fun out there." Stephen winked, then glanced at me. "Jake actually has a visitor outside. I told him it might be best to wait until after the show, but he's a little impatient. Marco, you want to go with me to grab a coffee and let them talk for a minute?"

"Who is it?" Jake asked, stress returning to his face. I was a little confused, too – what was up with this?

"It's, um, General Young," he admitted.

Jake just stared. "Four star General Young?" he asked. "The commander of the Allied Pacific Forces, General Young?" Stephen just nodded, looking a little embarrassed.

Jake stood back up. "Well, far be it from me to keep one of the leaders of the free world waiting," he said. "But anything he can say to me, he can say in front of Marco," he added loyally.

"No, it's cool," I said, going to leave with Stephen. "He asked for you, man. Anyway, I could use a cup of Joe." I followed Stephen out of the greenroom, and sure enough, General Young stood outside of the room with his uniform cap in the crook of his elbow.

I'd only met him once, at a dinner at the White House, but he remembered me fine. "Mr. Lyons," he offered me his hand. "It's a pleasure. I hate to pull you away from your friend this close to showtime, but the President has asked me to speak with him as soon as possible." He gave me an apologetic look, and I laughed easily.

"I'd never allow the President to be kept waiting, either. Pleasure's mine, as always, General." He nodded his thanks and slipped into the room where Jake waited.

Stephen rattled on about something as we sipped our coffee, but I couldn't pay attention. I couldn't help but to think that this was it – what I'd always hoped for and always feared at the same time. The government calling Jake to action. It bothered me that I wasn't going to be included in whatever it was. I was happy doing what I was doing, but I also wasn't going to be okay with letting Jake take off to fight another fight by himself. I resolved to get it out of Jake as soon as the interview was over and go from there.

Fifteen minutes passed. Stephen had already had to leave me to start the first segment of his show. I knew it would only be moments before we were taken to the stage, so I tried to forget about what might be being said in the greenroom and closed my eyes to try and chill before the show. Before I opened them again, I heard footsteps approaching.

It was Jake, being led by a production assistant. To my surprise, he didn't look stressed anymore. He looked…well, he looked like the old Jake. There was something about him that had given him an edge back. "Listen for the call," the assistant said. "Ninety seconds."

I ignored him. "Jake, what was that all about?"

He just grinned. "Don't worry about it. Let's just say I'm no longer unemployed."

"What are you talking about? Did that guy sign you up for the army? Are you taking off for boot camp after this?"

"Not technically. Not in the sense you mean."

"Well, then what?" I demanded. "What is -"

"Mr. Berenson and Mr. Lyons to the stage," the lady wearing the headset standing behind the curtain called. I sighed.

"This isn't over," I told Jake as we went to Stage B and sat at the desk there. Stephen liked to do this whole thing where he runs over to his guests so it appears like his audience is cheering him, and he was about to head our way. "Not by a long shot."

"Shut up," he said underneath his breath, but he was still smiling.

Just then, Stephen yelled, "Please welcome my very special guests, Marco Lyons and…Jake Berenson!" he couldn't contain the excitement in his voice as he said Jake's name. He ran over to his desk, and I shot a quick glance at Jake. He was still smiling, relaxed. '_At least there's that,_' I thought.

Stephen made a big fuss over shaking our hands and bowing to us, like we were idols. "Wow! Two real American heroes! Give it up!" The studio audience made up of about a hundred or so people roared so loudly that it sounded like a thousand. I shook my head and smiled, and Jake just waved easily.

"First thing's first – there is no morphing allowed on this show. No one is allowed to be more talented than me on this set." I laughed like I was supposed to, and so did Jake. "Jake Berenson! Thanks so much for coming!"

"No problem, Stephen," he flashed a winning smile, like he'd been doing this his whole life. "Thanks for having me."

"I have to know something. Your battle morph is a tiger, right?"

"Siberian tiger," Jake agreed.

"The million dollar question – if I caught your toe…would you really holler?" The audience laughed at the lame joke, and Jake joined in.

"I'm pretty sure I'd do a bit more than holler," he laughed along.

Stephen got a little more serious. "It really is great to see you, man. You're looking great. Things are good?"

"Things are good," Jake agreed. "I've been a little aloof, I know, but I'm happy to be here. It's nice, not having to worry about whether or not you've got a Yeerk in your head that needs to be stomped out." There was a short pause as Jake the Yeerk-Killer made his own joke – I know my jaw probably dropped. Jake _never _joked about the war. Ever.

The roar of laughter shook me out of my surprise, and Jake just kept on smiling serenely.

When Stephen got over his own surprise at the joke, he said, "Yeah, this is all me," he pointed to his forehead. "Hard to believe a normal human could be this intelligent and good-looking, I know, but it's true."

"You are a fine specimen, Stephen," Jake agreed.

"Thank you, thank you. And Marco Lyons, in the flesh!" he waited through another round of applause for me, and I bowed. "Marco, I just finished your book." He put a copy of The Gorilla Speaks on the desk for the cameras to see. "A fantastic, funny, informative read. I couldn't put it down. And even though it's only been on shelves for three weeks, it's already number one on the best-seller's list!" Another round of applause.

I grinned. "Telling the story was fun. I have to laugh about it, you know? People always want to know about the details of the secret war, so I figured I'd just tell the story once."

"And tell the story, you do, my friend. It's impossible to read this book and not be in awe of all of the things you've done." He leaned in close, like we were about to share a secret. "I know its non-fiction, but this book _does_ bring up one big, huge question. Have you, or have you not, gotten Aximili into rehab for his Cinnabon addiction?"

Jake laughed the hardest out of everyone and answered the question for me. "No, we're still in the enabling phase. You know, in denial of the problem and all that. Once he steals my TV and pawns it for Cinnabon money, I'll call up the rehab and get him a bed."

The audience – and Stephen and I – laughed almost to the point of tears. What had the general done, slipped Jake some funny pills? He had never been this quick and witty, even back in the day. Jake just stayed relaxed and kept talking. "Seriously, though, Ax is doing well. He's been promoted to War Prince, as everybody knows. He just received his new command, a brand new, Beta Three Dome Ship named _Fire Flower_. He's out in deep space right now, actively searching out threats so nothing like the Earth Invasion ever happens again. The Andalites are working with us to get us Z-space capable, so we can get out there and help them out."

"That's awesome," Stephen said.

"The best part is that they don't want our money," I smiled. "They accept payment in the form of gooey, delicious treats."

When the crowd was done laughing, red lights began blinking over the assembled audience. It was Stephen's cue that the segment was coming to an end. "Anyway, it's always nice to have you, Marco. Thanks for coming on. And you, Jake, thanks again for being here. Ladies and gentlemen, let's hear it for two of the Animorphs, Marco Lyons and Jake Berenson!" The camera people called cuts and commercial, but the crowd kept right on cheering us until we were off-stage.

I stared at Jake as we were led down the hallway that would take us out of the building. He noticed and sighed. "I suppose you're mad at me for stealing the spotlight?" he asked.

I shook my head, aggravated that he'd come to that conclusion. I didn't answer until we were in the car and on the way to the Four Seasons hotel. "Of course not. Don't be stupid. I'm more excited for you than I've ever been. What bothers me is _why_. What did General Young say to you that put you in such a good mood?"

Jake pointedly looked at the driver, and I knocked on the glass partition. "Soundproof. Now tell me what's up."

Jake shrugged. "Like I said, he gave me a job. I'm going to be training an elite, morph-capable counterterrorism force. Top secret, multi-national. I'm just in a good mood, that's all."

I considered, and I had to admit that it was perfect for Jake. He'd be able to put his knowledge to good use without actually fighting anybody. Not to mention he was obviously ecstatic to do it. I remembered what he'd said earlier, about liking to help people, and I realized he'd be doing a whole lot of good in his new line of work. "Well…that's cool, man. I'm…well, I'm happy for you. Jake Berenson, a teacher," I mused. "I gotta admit, it sounds like its right in your wheelhouse."

He just nodded. "You know, that show actually was pretty fun," he admitted. "Don't go overboard, but I wouldn't mind if you wanted to book me for a couple more."

That surprised me, but I covered it up. "I might just do that," I said, trying to sound like I didn't care one way or the other. And I kind of didn't. I was just glad something had happened that brought the old Jake back, just a little, at least.

"So anyway, thanks a lot. Thanks for getting me out of my own head," he said.

"Hey, it wasn't me," I insisted. "You pulled your own head out of your own ass. Thank yourself."

He laughed, still jazzed from the show and the job offer. "All right, thank you, Jake," he said. He got a little more serious. "And thanks again, Marco."

"Own ass," I said again, knowing intuitively those two words would be a private joke between the two of us for the rest of our lives. We pulled up to the Four Seasons, and Jake stared through the window into the ridiculously luxuriant lobby.

"At least I'll get one more taste of the high life before getting back to work," he commented.

"You can come play in my world anytime, man."

**A/N – **Hope you liked it. I want to thank Wredan, Sweetbriar, and DivinestSense for taking the time to leave a review – thank you guys for continuing to motivate me to write Animorphs fanfic. I sincerely appreciate it, and without you and the folks like you, I'd have quit a long time ago. Also, I know Stephen Colbert was still working on The Daily Show at the time this interview allegedly happened. I fast-tracked him a little early because I'm a big fan of him and his show – thanks for acknowledging that the Anis live in a different universe than the one we live in. Thanks again to everyone who takes the time to leave their thoughts!


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